


Closet Space

by Celestial_Alignment



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Blow Jobs, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celestial_Alignment/pseuds/Celestial_Alignment
Summary: While on a mission, Jim and Artie hide in a closet that is much, much too small.
Relationships: Artemus Gordon/James West
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Closet Space

They were sneaking through the villain’s headquarters. They heard a sound. Neither of them needed to whisper ‘Quick! Hide!’ since like a well-choreographed dance, they ducked through the nearest door, Jim first. It was only half a step into the dark and he collided with what felt like a wall of shelves, the objects clattering as he bumped into it again when Artie squeezed in behind him and latched the door.

“Artie, you’re crushing me…” he whispered and pushed back. He was sandwiched between the shelves and Artie, he couldn’t even turn around.

“Sh!” Artie’s hand clamped on his arm and they both froze, listening.

Footsteps were coming down the hall, a multitude of them, and voices conversing casually, spurs clinging and the unmistakable sound of gun belts. This place was crawling with henchmen, and though Jim was sure he could take them on in a fight, they needed the advantage of secrecy if they were going to find what they were looking for.

They were both holding their breaths as they listened. It didn’t sound like those henchmen were walking away. In fact, it sounded like they decided to stand right in front of this broom closet to continue their conversation. It didn’t seem like they were going any where any time soon.

Jim shrugged a little, testing the space to see if he could turn around. But Artie’s weight and body was heavy against him from behind, and he could tell that Artie couldn’t turn around either.

“Artie…” he whispered over his shoulder. “You mind moving your gun? It’s jabbing me…”

Artie wriggled, his breath blowing hot on the back of Jim’s neck. Jim could feel his partner straining to carefully and quietly rotate his gun belt on his hip. It was warm in here. Dusty and cluttered. Jim’s hat sat crooked on his head, half over his eyes, and he couldn’t even lift his arms to straighten it. Every time Artie moved his own head, his hat’s brim knocked against Jim’s.

He tried to sit still, the murmurings of the henchmen still right outside the door. But there was a shelf beginning to dig into his rib cage and he pushed back just a little, and again something poked him in the ass.

He wanted to ask Artie again to move his gun, but he didn’t dare speak more than he had to. With his hand at his side, he intended to reach back and rotate Artie’s gun belt himself, but when he did, his hand fell on his partners pistol in its holster. It was then that he realized it wasn’t Artie’s gun poking into him.

That was no one’s fault, it was tight quarters, and Artie couldn’t help that Jim was unintentionally rubbing against him. Artie let out a shaking breath, very quietly, between tight lips. There wasn’t much of a thought in Jim’s head as he pushed back, other than some half-conscious justification that he was trying to keep the shelves from digging into his ribs and chest. His back was firm against Artie’s chest, his ass fitting right into the hard bulge of Artie’s nether region.

Artie grunted quietly.

“Jim, I’m telling you, I can’t move back any farther…” he practically pleaded. “You’re crushing me against the door…”

“Quiet, Artie…” he whispered.

He was also getting hard. Tight space, high temperatures. That was probably all. Didn’t explain why he rolled his hips again to feel that hard bulge against his ass. Artie grunted quietly through his nose. Jim liked the sound. 

There were men on the other side of the door who were ready to kill them in an instant, and would have if they knew the government agents were in that closet. Danger was so close, the adrenaline made him reckless.

Somewhere in his brain he thought that he would never have this chance again to know what it was like to be this close to Artie. To know that being this close excited them both. Maybe it was just the danger and could never happen again. That now-or-never mentality spurred him to roll his hips back again. Then again with excruciating slowness. It wasn’t accidental this time, he wanted Artie to know he was doing it on purpose. Artie didn’t tell him to stop.

Jim heard his partner swallowing down whatever noises threatened to rise up, and he could feel the breath getting heavier and shorter against his neck.

Even in the cramped space it was easy for Artie to snake an arm around Jim’s tiny waist, his hand ghosting over Jim’s flat stomach, his belt buckle, sliding down to the front of his pants. There was hesitation in Artie’s fingers as they ghosted over the fabric of Jim’s trousers, so Jim made the decision for him. He put his hand over Artie’s, guiding him to grope hard and generously.

“Can you hear ‘em…?” Jim asked with the same professionalism he always did.

“W-who?” Artie sounded a little confused, his hand kneading Jim’s cock through his pants.

The attention had Jim push back again. God that felt good. He forgot his original question. He felt the unforgiving friction on his ass when Artie rutted against him.

It seemed neither of them wanted to stop now. Artie was grinding against him, his mouth fallen to the space between Jim’s neck and shoulder, his hand working diligently on Jim’s bulge. Heat was radiating from Artie’s palm and fingers, tingling through Jim to the tips of his fingers and he didn’t want it to stop. Artie’s breath occasionally hitched, cut short with a shudder and renewed vigor. They couldn’t stop now, not when the pressure gauge was going up and up and up… Jim was forgetting where he was, but somehow he was remembering to keep quiet.

His hips were gyrating now between Artie’s crotch and his hand and he was getting closer and closer. Was he really going to keep going and blow his load right here in his pants in the middle of a mission? Hell, he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He was getting frantic and couldn’t breathe. The tiny space of that closet was heavy with hot air. 

Artie’s hand didn’t need help anymore, and Jim gripped one of the shelves in front of him with both hands, panting hard and desperately keeping in the moan and begging Artie by name. Jim was getting close, the proximity of release jolting him with pleasure and he leaned a little too hard on the shelves.

“What was that?” said a voice on the other side of the door.

That stopped them both. The spell was broken, and reality was rearing its ugly head. Jim’s lust was burning away to embarrassment and confusion, and Artie too was taking back his hand, and easing up the contact between them. They knew what to do.

“Ready?” Artie whispered at his ear and Jim hummed back an affirmative.

Artie reached behind himself to turn the door handle, and the two government agents came flying out of the broom closet like bats out of hell, taking out each and every henchman who stood there, not a shot fired.

They continued on their mission with only a few hiccups along the way, nothing more than usual. The stolen property they were searching for was restored, the culprit hauled away to prison, and the day concluded in the Wanderer.

* * *

The train clicked on its tracks as it carried them to their next destination, the familiar rhythm running through the floorboards. Both men had washed up and changed into fresh clothes when they returned home, and Artemus was once again given the honor of tapping out the report to Washington via telegraph. Jim was sitting on the sofa nearby, one leg crossed over the other, a magazine in his hands, and a rather unbecoming frown creasing his youthful features.

Neither of them had said a word about what occurred in the closet and were otherwise carrying on as if it never happened. Artemus was a master at pretend, but he couldn’t get rid of the deep confusion that seemed to stifle the air between them. He hated himself for giving into those impulses—in an enemy’s closet of all places!—and he especially hated that for the first time he couldn’t read Jim. To make matters worse, he felt the miserable dissatisfaction of being deprived of sexual release, manifold by the fact that he couldn’t have it with Jim. That closet was a fluke, nothing more. He needed to get the edge off. Alone. In his own room.

With an accomplished sigh, he signed off on the telegraph and slid the device back into its false book compartment.

“Another one for the books.”

Jim’s eyes lifted from his magazine, the frown smoothing away. That was the look that always made Artemus fall to pieces every time he was on the receiving end of it, the look Jim always gave him when Artemus was giving an impromptu lecture or history lesson, a look that invariably made Jim look much younger and more innocent than he was. Artemus wanted to stay in his friend’s company, but good lord, he felt like he was going to die if he didn’t get some relief.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a nap,” he said lightly as he pushed back his chair and walked around the desk.

Jim’s gaze was following him as he passed the sofa. God, why couldn’t Jim just give him the cold shoulder, say goodnight, ask to play cards, anything other than the silence and _that look_. He hurried down the narrow corridor, past the lab car to his tiny room. He shut the door and tore off his waistcoat. He couldn’t breathe, his skin was itching with need, his body aching in ways that he was old enough to know meant he needed a good, quick release to get the edge off.

Pulling his shirttails out, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it hang from his shoulders as he sat on the edge of his bed, his forehead in his palms, fingers in the dark curls on his head. He had never wanted anyone so bad in his life. It was maddening. He considered sleeping it off, waiting until they reached the next town to do what they always did and find some nice ladies to exert themselves with. Next town— _ha_. That was two days away!

To hell with it. 

He reached for his trousers, ready to abuse himself quick and hard to get rid of this agony. His fingers hardly touched himself when a light rap at his door startled him with the power of all the bells of Notre Dame. He jolted, and panicked for a moment, he sputtered.

“J-just a moment!” 

He tucked himself back into his clothes, pushed his fingers through his hair in a poor attempt to straighten it, and opened the door a crack. Jim was leaning against the door jamb, closer than Artemus expected. He was going to ask him what was up, but Jim wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was down, and for a stupid moment Artie thought that he had food or wine on his shirt.

Jim’s hand flattened on the door, slowly but firmly pushing it open. He moved forward and Artemus, for fear of touching, stepped back. His heart was hammering with confusion, and his back hit the wall. Jim’s eyes were still down, his body almost slinking with the calm that commanded it. The only clue, the only tell that Artemus could recognize in Jim’s impenetrable facade that he was perhaps unsure, was how often he blinked. 

Jim had him pinned to the wall, his knee between Artie’s. Artie was holding his breath while Jim’s gaze was lowered, his hands at work on the front of Artie’s trousers with the same purposefulness of saddling a horse. In no time at all, he freed his manhood, taking it heavy and erect in his hand. The terror of the moment should have made Artemus’s erection go away, but he was in _Jim’s hands_ and that was enough to fill his head with noise.

Jim stroked him, slow at first, working a little faster until Artie had no choice but to start breathing again in ragged breaths, his chest heaving and clawing desperately at the wall behind him, his head thunking back and his eyes rolling closed. He could feel the callouses and the strength that he knew were in his friend’s lethal hands, and good lord, did they know how to pleasure, too. Artie often had those off-hand, passing thoughts of what they could do to a woman, he never imagined…

There was new heat against his throbbing member and a low, deep sound rose out of Jim, right at Artie’s ear. Jim’s head was hanging, but not touching, just over Artie’s shoulder, his breath gusting hot on his neck. When Artie dared to look down, Jim was not just stroking Artie now, he had them both, together, pumping fast and hard, his thumb gliding across the sensitive and now weeping tips. The sight was unholy and Artemus shuddered again as the pleasure rolled through him. He wanted to hold Jim, to kiss him, but aside from what Jim’s hand was doing, they were not touching. He did not know if there was an unspoken rule here, and he didn’t want to push his luck. Oh, he didn’t want to disrupt this at all. He wanted it to last forever, and not just because it felt maddeningly good, but because it was Jim doing it to him. It felt like a dream.

Artemus pinched his eyes closed, letting out the moan that was building in his throat. He didn’t want to climax yet—he wanted this to last—and he used everything in his arsenal to do it. He thought about bad opera, dime novels, burnt souffles, ketchup on crackers—anything distasteful. He only felt a little bad that Jim’s wrist may start to hurt, but there were no complaints from the other man. He was panting, too, each inhale that expanded his chest almost brushing against Artie’s. He was close—no, not yet!

Jim’s hands were frantic and he gasped sharply, throbbing hard against Artie’s cock, his hot seed spilling over them both. Jim teetered, quaked, and very nearly let his forehead touch Artie’s shoulder, but not quite. His hand had stopped and Artie couldn’t be disappointed that he hadn’t also come, that Jim enjoyed the fruits of his labor alone. But the sound, muted as it was, and the electricity of Jim coming was the stuff of addiction. The sticky, salty smell that only the most intimate of interactions allowed. There was a dead silence, just a short beat, and Jim lightly punched his knuckles against the wall beside Artie.

He was catching his breath, still holding both of their manhoods together, even though his hand was covered in spunk. Artie licked his lips and opened his mouth, trying to find something to say, wondering if he should. Maybe tell Jim it was okay? Thank him?

He had no chance. Jim let go of himself, but he dropped to his knees. Now he was finally looking up at Artie with those blue eyes that seemed to have a flash of green when he was especially feral—like right now. A look that told Artie in a wondrous instant that James West wasn’t done with him. Artie licked his lips again and they twitched, wordless.

Jim opened his mouth wide, the outline of that square jaw sharpening in the action, and he brought Artie’s sensitive head to his flattened tongue. It was hot as hellfire and Artie almost forgot to breathe again. When Jim’s lips closed around him, and he took him into his mouth, along with his own cum, Artie was shocked by the wet heat and simply could not stop the embarrassing moan that rattled out of him. 

Artie wasn’t going to last. Not like this. It was too much. His knees were buckling, and at the same time, he was ready to kick with the ecstasy of it. Jim’s head was bobbing faster, his mouth and throat more accommodating than was fair, because he had no right to be so good at so many physical things. Artie was dying to dig his fingers into that mess of hair on Jim’s head, but he somehow remembered in his delirium not to touch. Don’t touch. Don’t come. Not yet. Not _yet_ …

It hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he bellowed out as his body seized, his hips pushing forward of their own accord into that torturous mouth as he came in paralyzing waves. He slumped back against the wall, mouth open wide as he huffed for air. The fog of pleasure was gradually dissipating and he realized he had just shot his load into his friend’s mouth. Oh God.

“Jim…” he finally spoke, ready with an apology, mortified.

But when he had opened his eyes again, Jim was standing in front of him again, a thumb swiping the corner of his red mouth before he sucked it clean. He smirked, those damnable dimples appearing. Jim had never looked so proud of himself, and so damned shameless. Artie realized then that he had no reason to be shy or scared with James. They were well past that.

Before Jim could say anything, Artie had him roughly by the front of his shirt, pulling him hard against him and mashing their mouths together. The surprised, muffled sound that escaped Jim was extremely satisfying. He reciprocated the kiss, tongues sharing the salty, sinful taste until it was swallowed down and only their flavors remained. Kissing him, finally, outshone all the rest. It made Artie’s heart flutter and pound in a way that only love could and he was smiling like an idiot against Jim’s lips now. Jim was smiling too.

Artemus reluctantly broke the kiss, his hands unwilling to let go of the perfect fit they had on Jim’s small waist. “Would it be too bold of me to suggest that we rid ourselves of these, ah, soiled clothes and retire to bed?”

“Entirely too bold…” Jim’s voice rumbled as his lips went for the sensitive spot on Artie’s neck, just under his ear.

The bed was made for one, and it was small… But they had a new affinity for small spaces.


End file.
